


The Immortal of Letters

by rebaobsessions



Series: Crossover Attempts [5]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7068361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebaobsessions/pseuds/rebaobsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos has fought the supernatural longer than written memory. Richie has not. Following the entrance and defeat of Ahriman, the young immortal lands himself a spot as demon hunting padawan. Now, almost eight years since they became partners, Methos has something special planned: a bunker full of supernatural lore.<br/>Sam and Dean, well, they're both reeling from the death of their time-traveling grandfather and the discovery of a secret lair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little background: Methos helped Duncan with Ahriman and Richie didn't die. The watchers had an outside influence acting on them, so a lot of the stuff with the tribunal never happened. Poor Adam Pierson was killed in the crossfire by a Hunter (the immortal hunting kind) a short time after Ahriman. Duncan kindly offered to mentor the 'new' immortal and apologized profusely for not warning the poor Watcher that he was a pre-immortal.  
> The rest should be pretty clear in the story.
> 
> I'd like to give a big thank-you to my beta, EtchNya :)

The oldest man alive was not having a great day. Methos sat in his signature slouch, complete with his feet on a table and a beer in hand. He was, however, not as relaxed as he appeared. His eyes were tracking the agitated pacing form in front of him; Methos’ fellow immortal, and current companion, was practically throwing a fit. _Sometimes,_ Methos mused, _I forget how young Richie is._

Just then, the redhead completed his cycle of the room and came to a stop in front of his mentor. “C’mon, old man! You’re telling me you’re gonna go visit a Bat-cave of supernatural lore, and I’m not invited?” Richie snorted in disbelief, “Even though I’m your demon-hunting padawan?” He turned and stormed halfway across the room and back, still gesturing wildly, “I’m not going to go screaming the truth to the world all of a sudden, Adam! You _know_ how much this means to me! I practically begged you after you helped Mac with Ahriman—”

“Yes, Richie, I am perfectly aware of your conviction,” Methos sighed and rubbed the bridge of his (considerable) nose, “Nothing has changed, besides the fact that I think you’re _ready_ for this. You _will_ get to see the Men of Letter’s bunker, but I need you to run interference with Amy and Mike first.”

That had its desired effect. The young immortal stopped dead and stared at Methos, “I thought we trusted them—especially Amy—since the Tribunal’s reform.”

“Not with this.”

“Really?” Richie’s face had transformed into one of curiosity, “Why not?”

“The Watchers have never gotten along with the Men of Letters. I do _not_ want to risk a confrontation. Not to mention, I’d rather not scar them more than we already have. We’ve pulled them into far too many hunts for my liking.”

“Oh.”

Methos smirked at his companion. _Very eloquent, Richie._ “I trust you can find a… suitable activity to occupy both of our dear Watchers? I only need an hour to disappear.”

Richie gave him a wary look, “But not that certain kind of disappearing, right?”

Methos gave him a dry chuckle, “Four years hunting at my side, and still you do not trust me. I must be rubbing off on you after all.” Richie gave him his best glare. Methos smirk widened, “I’ll give you a call once I get there. Once I know it’s clear, I’ll lead you right to me. Fair?”

“Fine,” Rich heaved a dramatic sigh, before brightening theatrically, “Well, I suppose I’m off to a bar to question two Watchers in a very unprofessional manner about MacLeod and Joe. Maybe I’ll hear something on dear old Bobby!”

“Yes,” Methos grinned back, “Please check up on that idiot. Make sure he’s not hell bent on stampeding halfway across the country to get to his boys anymore. The last thing we need is a pair of pissed off hunters on top of potential Men of Letters.”

“Knowing us, though….”

“Yes. Our luck does seem rather abysmal lately, doesn’t it?”

* * *

“Hey Sammy! How does pie sound?”

Sam, whose nose was firmly buried in a book about vampires, was vaguely aware of someone talking to him. However, he could barely be bothered to figure out what they (presumably Dean) wanted. This book, much like every other book Sam had discovered in the Men of Letter’s bunker, was absolutely fascinating. This particular book spoke of _species_ of vampires, and how the most _common_ type was the one the brothers were familiar with, but that there were many more. Many more that Sam would have been useless against before he discovered this book. That seemed to be a trend throughout his research spree. An hour after they had started investigating the bunker, Sam had realized he was out of his depth. Laughably so. For the past two days, ever since that realization, he had been steadily devouring the library, trying to catch up. Not that Dean understood the urgency.

“Earth to Sammy!” Dean’s voice broke through once again, much closer this time.

Sam turned his head, but didn’t manage to tear his eyes from the book, “Yeah, Dean?”

“I’m headin’ into town, gonna pick up some groceries. You want anything?”

“Uh, no thanks Dean,” Sam turned back to the book.

Dean snorted, “You and your books, Sam. You and your books.” He turned on his heels, and called over his shoulder, “Be back in a bit!”

Finally untangling himself from his paragraph, Sam looked up and smiled fondly after his brother as he disappeared up the stairs and out into the world. No matter what else was dropped on their plates— the apocalypse, demon galore, asshole angels, even time traveling grandparents—at least they had each other. Everyone else was dead, even Bobby, but they had each other. For now.

* * *

Richie paused, still chuckling to himself, and checked his watch. Good; Methos should be long gone. Across the table, one of his two companions leaned forward, eyebrows crinkled, a frown forming on her petite face, “Rich, are you quite sure Adam is ok? He was supposed to be here a while ago, wasn’t he?”

 _Shit_. Richie looked up at his Watcher and attempted his best smile, knowing it was futile. Amy would see through it just like her father.

Beside her, their other companion put down his beer and leaned forward as well. “You two aren’t on a hunt right now are you? Because if Adam is in danger…”

“No! No, Mike, he’s fine.”

Amy’s eyes narrowed, “Where is he?”

“Uh… nowhere?”

Mike snorted, “Richie, for spending all your time with an immortal who’s unnaturally slippery for his age, you are terrible at lying. You’d think Adam –or, hell, Amanda— would have rubbed off on you by now. Adam may be a natural, but you are not.”

Amy met Richie’s eyes and smirked. (Richie clearly saw both meanings behind it: ‘ha! He got you on that one!’ and ‘aw man, he’s so clueless, isn’t he?’) “Where’s Adam, Richie? Or do I need to call up my father?”

Richie felt his eyes widen despite himself, “No, please don’t. Joe doesn’t need to know. Give me anyone—even Mac!— over Joe.”

Mike chuckled. Amy raised an eyebrow.

“Ok, fine. I have no idea.”

Narrowed eyes. More raised eyebrows.

“Well, I don’t! Not really.” Richie looked from one Watcher to the other and sighed, “He went to some old supernatural library place. Supposedly its owners aren’t fond of Watchers and he didn’t want to risk anything.”

“Is that really all he told you?”

“Besides asking me to distract you two? Yeah. He’ll call me once he gets there.” For one tense moment, Richie held his breath, eyes shifting between the two Watchers: one young, one experienced; one man, one woman; and both with nerves of steel and an incredible open-mindedness. The Watchers had fought side by side with their assignments multiple times since finding out about the things that go bump in the night. Hunting the supernatural was a far stretch from watching people who can’t die run around and chop each other’s’ heads off, but they had barely freaked out at all after the revelation. Although… Joe had _not_ been happy that his daughter had been pulled into the world of demons and monsters. He was still in denial about it since he’d only found out, along with Mac and Richie, when Ahriman had shown up.

“Well,” Amy broke the silence, “I guess there’s nothing to it then.” She leaned forward again, a feral grin lighting her features, “Did you hear what Amanda tricked Bobby into doing with her?”

“Bobby?” Richie asked in shock, “Stealing something with Amanda? What was Mac’s reaction?”

Mike chuckled warmly, “He was aghast that Amanda was corrupting his student… until Bobby reminded him he was a hunter and did illegal things all the time when he was mortal.”

Amy beamed, “You should _hear_ Joe describe Duncan’s face!”

* * *

Methos took a deep breath, listening to the crunch of the gravel road beneath his tires. The world changed around him all the time… Methos was used to it after five thousand years. But Lebanon, the tiny town in Kansas, the geographical center of the US and the nearest piece of civilization to the Men of Letters, was almost frighteningly unchanged. Staring up the rough road at the dirty and battered bunker was even more concerning. Methos knew what happened to his compatriots. All the Men of Letters he used to know were already dead or ancient (in mortal terms) at the time, but the entire organization was wiped out by some demon or another. Methos had been halfway around the world at the time, unaware and useless, but had been irrationally crushed all the same when he found out. Methos was used to loss, used to disaster, but he respected the Men of Letters—maybe even more than the Watchers—and had mourned the loss of the organization. They may have been superior pricks, but at least they _did_ something about the supernatural.

The Watcher’s supernatural division (woefully uninformed compared to the Men of Letters) was supposed to just observe. While that may work for immortals… the rest of the unexplainable world didn’t function in the same way. The organization had to keep the supernatural division a _secret_ because so many Watchers left to hunt instead when they found out. After all… immortals were generally harmless to the average human. The _supernatural_ did not discriminate. Why should you watch people challenge each other to the death when you can _save_ ordinary mortals from a world they unwittingly live in?

The Men of Letters were not perfect by any stretch of the imagination—they were barely even aware of immortals, after all—but they at least made an effort  to send individuals into the field to _stop_ the things that go bump in the night or at least _share_ the information with someone who could. This bunker, here in Kansas, was the central hub for coordinating hunters for the entire country. The loss of their information and guidance was felt dearly amongst the organization’s chosen hunters. Once Methos found out about their loss, he hung around the US for a while. He kicked around with a pair of hunters—one of which had just gotten pulled into the life—who were both ex-Watchers. One, Rufus, helped Adam Pierson check out with the Watchers. He was dead now; both of the hunters had died recently. One of the two deaths just wasn’t permanent. Bobby was still pissed at Methos for dragging him to Seacouver.

However, now was not the time to think of the surly South Dakota native. Now was the time to enter the rabbit hole, so to speak. For if Lebanon had failed to change… the Men of Letter’s bunker was a time capsule. It was all Methos could do to avoid falling headlong into memories of working in this very bunker, of long nights paging through books and penning messages to hunters located halfway across the country. The old factory and perilous steps looked exactly as he had last seen them; not even a blade of grass appeared new.

Bracing himself, Methos exited his car, slamming the door behind him, and evaluated his surroundings. There were no cars sitting by the door, but that didn’t mean much. If there were inhabitants, their car may simply reside in the garage. There were two ways to proceed from here.  Should he knock, or simply use the copy of the key he had made years prior? If there were surviving Men of Letters, or if someone had discovered a key and the coordinates, he would scare them half to death. However, if he simply knocked, what would he say? What was that saying? “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

Methos approached the door. _Oh_ , he sighed internally, _what the hell_. The oldest immortal raised his hand and knocked.  He waited, then knocked again. After a few more seconds, Methos decided that if there was anyone home, they had sufficient warning.

A few seconds later Methos stepped across the threshold to a brightly lit and clearly inhabited abode. It was nothing like the last time he visited. And it was not just the equipment and newer technology. There were scattered books, notes, pens, and even dirty dishes. _Is that a half-eaten sandwich?_ So much for the assumption that the Men of Letters were no more.

Finding himself at the bottom of the stairs, Methos leaned heavily against the nearby table with a map printed on it, eyeing its current occupant (the sandwich) with trepidation. The next question was painfully obvious: were the inhabitants out or—

“Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?”

Turning slightly, Methos came face to face with the barrel of a gun. The man holding the gun was surprisingly tall ( _Practically a giant_ ), clad in flannel plaid and jeans, with shoulder-length hair and a very obvious hunter air about him. _There is no way this man is a Man of Letters._

The man frowned and took half a step closer, slightly shaking his gun as though to make sure the immortal had seen it. “I said,” he repeated, “who are you and how the _hell_ did you get in here?”

 _Great_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean confront the intruder and get some answers, only to be confronted with much bigger questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is single-perspective, so it's a bit different from the last chapter, but I felt this worked the best. Hope you enjoy!  
> (The next update is going to take a bit longer, but please hang in there with me; I'll have it up as soon as I can.)

Dean never knocked. Why should he? The only way in was with a key, and as far as the brothers were aware, _they_ had the _only_ key. So of course Sam would investigate; a knock on the bunker door was enough to get him out of his research, a feat even Dean struggled with. So Sam had picked up a nearby gun and went to peek out the door… only to find an intruder, supposedly the knocker, already within the confines of the heavily warded, practically impenetrable bunker. So: _What the HELL?!_

The tall, lean, dark-haired man, who had an unassuming professor-like air (image complete with a sweater under his trench coat), turned slightly and eyed Sam up and down. Sam could see the stranger tag every hidden weapon the hunter kept on his person. A fighter, then. _Not encouraging._ The man raised an eyebrow, a small smirk quirking his sharp face. “Well,” he announced in a British accent, “I must say, this is not how I envisioned this little excursion. Considerably more… interactive than what I had in mind. And you… you do not appear to be a Man of Letters.”

“How would you know?” Sam frowned. _The Men of Letters were wiped out years ago._

The stranger shrugged eloquently. The man was doing a very good job of keeping his hands in sight. “You could say it’s family history. I know a bit about the order. So, are you a hunter?”

 _A legacy like us? A_ British _legacy?_ “Depends. Who are you?”

A brilliant smile lit his face, “Adam Pierson. And you are?”

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s going to be like that, is it? If you must know, I was looking for a few books. The type of book you would be… unlikely to find in an average library,” the stranger, Adam, shrugged eloquently again and gave Sam a meaningful look.

“How did you get in?”

“A key. I should hope any other way is thoroughly warded against.”

“A key. You have a key?” Sam found himself repeating doubtfully.

“Yes, that is what I said.”

“And how did you _get_ a key?

A smirk graced Adam’s sharp features and he shrugged again, “Oh, I’ve had it for _ages_.”

Sam narrows his eyes at the man before him. “Ages,” the Winchester repeated doubtfully once again.

The man frowned, false worry coloring his tone, “Do you have a scratched record in there?”

Sam pressed his lips together in annoyance, “If you had a key, why did you knock?”

“Well, I didn’t _think_ there was anyone here, but I wasn’t about to risk getting shot on sight. Bad for your health, don’t you know, never mind bloody painful.”

“Really,” Sam shot back dryly.

“Now, this has been fun and all,” Adam clapped his hands together, “but I really would love to know the name of the hunter with a gun pointed at my head. If you… don’t mind, that is.”

Sam gave the stranger another appraisal. He appeared to have some kind of weapon stashed in his coat—a very big one at that. However, he did seem to be a hunter of some variety…“Sam Winchester.”

“Winchester?” Adam repeated in surprise. For a moment Sam was sure he saw fear—no dread— flash across the Brit’s face, but it was gone faster than it appeared. “My, my. You and your brother have created quite the stir over these past few years…both in the hunter community and beyond. Especially with that apocalypse business. I must ask, though; what was up with that serial killer spree? Shifters?”

“Leviathan.”

“Oh, my. The rumors are true then, are they? Out of the prison and into the world,” Adam shook his head in reproach.

“You seem to know an awful lot.” _Almost like an insider._

Adam gave the Winchester an unimpressed look, “I am very good at my job, Sam.”

“It seems to be a bit more than that, _Adam_ ,” Sam shot back.

Adam’s reply came as an icy smile that transformed his face. Sam was instantly struck by the realization that as unassuming as Adam may be, he was very dangerous… and a _very_ good actor. Sam shifted himself slightly, preparing to reach for a silver knife, but just then the bunker door flew open.

It clanged loudly against the wall as Dean burst in, gun in one hand, shopping bag in the other. “Sammy?” he called before his eyes landed on the scene below him. In an instant his gun was trained on the intruder. “Hands in the air!” the elder Winchester bellowed.

Adam heaved a dramatic sigh, but complied easily enough. Sam’s eyes were immediately drawn back to the man’s coat. There was _very_ clearly some sort of weapon tucked away in there.

Dean shut the door with a foot before pounding down the stairs, “Who the hell are you?”

Adam rolled his eyes, “I do apologize, but we already did this part without you. I am Adam Pierson, I have a key, and I _did_ knock. I hate to disappoint…uh, Dean, is it?”

Dean frowned, “How do you know my name?”

“I’m afraid it’s simple logic. If he is Sam Winchester, you must be Dean Winchester. I mean, last I heard you were both alive, and when that is the case you rarely leave each other’s sides, do you?” Adam gave another elegant shrug, “Word about you two gets around the hunter grapevine quite quickly.”

“You’re a hunter then,” Dean eyed him up and down.

“I assure you, Dean, looks are not everything.”

Sam glanced at his brother, “He claims to be a legacy, like us.”

Adam leaned forward in interest, “You two are Men of Letters? I must say, that explains how you got a key.”

Dean frowned at him, “We were under the impression that it was the _only_ key.”

“That would be bloody impractical, don’t you think?”

The brothers glanced at each other again. Silently they agreed; it was time to run their unwanted visitor through the ropes and make sure he was what he said he was. Sam sighed slightly, _This all seems a little too coincidental… A visitor claiming to be a Man of Letters showing up just two days after we find the bunker?_  Pushing his doubts aside, Sam reached into his pocket again and produced a silver knife, holding it up for their visitor to see.

Surprisingly the man heaved a sigh, “Don’t suppose we could do the holy water first, could we?”

Sam glanced at his brother, _What? Why?_ Dean just shrugged and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing a familiar flask with a cross embossed on it. Without any preamble, the hunter tossed a fair amount of its contents upon the Brit. The intruder spluttered a little and wiped the water out of his eyes, but didn’t otherwise react.

“While we’re at it…” Dean muttered, putting the cap back on the flask before reaching into his shopping bag and retrieving a bottle of borax.

“Borax?” Adam asked curiously, “Is that for Levi—” He was cut off by a face full of the cleaning solution. Adam gagged and coughed into his jacket, “Was that—” he made a face, “really necessary? You could have waited for me to close my mouth.”

Dean smirked at him, “We might have been here all day.”

“Hilarious,” Adam shot back.

Sam lifted the silver knife once more and raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

“Yes, yes, alright,” Adam sighed holding out his hand. Sam tossed it to the man in an easy underhand throw. Adam eyed it carefully, “I don’t suppose I could convince you that me holding it is enough?”

Dean gave a forced fake laugh, “Hilarious,” he mocked back.

Sam shot his brother a side eye before frowning at Adam, “Why are you acting so squeamish? If you aren’t a monster, why don’t you want to cut yourself with a silver knife?”

“I assure you, I am like this with every knife, regardless of its material.” Adam turned slightly to place the knife beside him on the table before carefully shrugging off his coat and tossing it with a thump onto the center of the map. He rolled the left sleeve of his sweater halfway to his elbow, revealing a strange circular blue tattoo. He gave the brothers a wry smile, “Might as well get it over with.” Adam retrieved the knife from the table and—contrary to how the brothers always performed the test—laid a deep cut across the palm of his hand. Adam raised his eyebrows at the brothers, “Satisfied, I hope?”

The brothers exchanged yet another look. Sam frowned to himself. _Why was he so worried? Well, maybe he just doesn’t like cutting himself. No wonder, if he’s always cutting himself on his hand._ “Uh, yeah.” Sam fished into a pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. “Here,” he tossed it to the now verified human. Dean lowered his gun.

Adam, however, was not done being eccentric. He flashed them another grin as he wiped the blade clean and set it on the table once more. “Now, please refrain from shooting me. It is _not_ a pleasant experience.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw his brother’s _what- the-hell_ face flash into place, “Why on earth would we—”

Before Dean could finish, Adam wiped off the blood from his hand, revealing… nothing. His hand was perfectly untouched. In an instant, both brothers had their guns trained on the man once more.

“What are you?” Sam practically growled.

“No, let me amend that, Sammy,” Dean turned to ‘Adam’, “You don’t react to holy water, borax, or silver, and bleed red, but heal instantaneously. What the _hell_ are you?”

The man calling himself Adam deliberately—almost painfully slowly—tossed the bloodied cloth onto the table next to the knife, and straightened his sweater. He eyed the Winchesters carefully before speaking, “I _am_ human. I sleep, eat, and drink the exact same as you.”

“Well, what don’t you do like a human?” Dean snapped.

“I don’t heal like a human, and I don’t age like a human.”

After an awkward pause, Sam huffed in disbelief, “That’s it?” _There’s always a catch._

“That’s it.”

“So,” Dean stepped forward with a dangerous glint in his eye, “If I shot you in the heart right now…”

Adam gave Dean a thoroughly unimpressed look, “I would die.” Just as Dean rolled his eyes and started to turn to face Sam, Adam smirked, “And then I’d get back up.”

Dean whipped back to face the strange man, “What the hell are you?”

Sam’s mind reeled. Plenty of things could get shot and keep going, but something _dying_ —like completely ceasing to be alive—and then getting back up? _A zombie? But a zombie is_ always _dead…_

The intruder smiled enigmatically, “I am a hunter.”

“Uh,” Sam stepped forward, “Not what we’re talking about.”

“It _is_ true. I have been hunting monsters and demons long before your grandfather, Charles Winchester, or even your great grandfather, Arthur Winchester, were even conceived.”

Dean gave a dry chuckle, “Not helping your case buddy. Nothing human can live that long.”

“I am not a demon, Leviathan, shifter, werewolf, vampire, skin walker—would you like me to go on? I am not a monster. Nor,” he paused and swallowed hard ( _that’s interesting_ ), “am I a bloodthirsty god that survives on sacrifices. I’ve heard you encountered a few of those?” Adam shrugged, “I may be more permanent than the average human, but that does not change my intentions. I am merely here because I need the Men of Letters’ resources.”

“And it doesn’t change the fact that we’re cautious,” Sam pointed out. Adam nodded in acquiescence.

Dean narrowed his eyes and waved his gun a bit, “Are you serious when you say you’d die and come back?”

“Yes, though I do hope you take my word for it; there really is no pleasant way to die. Trust me I have plenty of experience.”

Sam frowned, “That’s dark.”

“So you’ve died a lot, you mean?” Dean pried.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll just be adding one more to your list.” Without a moment of hesitation, Dean aimed his gun at Adam’s heart and pulled the trigger.

The last thing Adam did was roll his eyes.

“Dean!” Sam jumped forward and redirected Adam’s trajectory so he fell away from the table. Fuming, he glared up at his older brother.

Dean merely shrugged, “If he was lying, he was stupid and a monster. If he was telling the truth, I bought us some time. Let’s figure out what the hell we have in our entryway.”

Sam looked back down at the body lying at his feet. Adam’s lifeless eyes stared across the room, and one of his arms was flung to the side. A sinister red stain spread across his sweater and leaked across the floor. Human or not, the stranger who had turned their day upside down was as dead as a doornail.

Sam sighed and glanced at his brother’s retreating back. _I hope your right, Dean. I really hope you’re right._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this took me to get up! I was at Comicon, then I was in the UK, then I was catching up at work, and then I was sick.... Anyway, it's here now! The next chapter is being problematic, but I'll have it up as soon as I can.  
> Hope you enjoy!

Methos regretted his entire existence. No. It wasn’t quite that bad. But… _What the bloody hell was I thinking?_ Of course they shot him. They were _hunters_. Methos supposed he should just be thankful that they didn’t try chopping his head off too.

The oldest immortal was not lying when he told the brothers that he had plenty of experience dying. That meant he also has plenty of experience reviving. As such, the man didn’t give any of the normal tell-tales reviving immortals typically broadcast, such as gasping for breath. Methos, however, could not help letting a small groan slip from his lips. _Bloody Winchesters. Bobby did warn me, but did they_ really _have to shoot me before I got a chance to explain?_

Methos catalogued his situation. He was on the floor, but he had been moved. There was no pool of blood beneath him, and he was on his side with his hands tied behind his back. As for his physical condition, there was a faint ache remaining in his chest (and one of his favorite jumpers was ruined _again_ ), but he was intact and completely healed. He couldn’t sense any sign that the brothers had decided to get rid of him when he was dead, so he could only assume that they had some common sense.

The immortal sighed slightly and cracked open his eyes. He was lying at the foot of a fairly impressive bookcase. That suggested he was in either the library, or the layout of the bunker had changed drastically since he was last here. Behind him, he heard the crackle of paper as someone turned a page in a book. That same individual—Methos was guessing Sam—heaved a sigh and muttered something to himself.

“Hey! Sammy!” Dean’s voice echoed from a distance, “Guess what I found in his car?”

“Hunting supplies!” Sam called back, annoyance coloring his tone.

“ _And_ two more swords, _and_ your favorite,” by the time Dean finished, he was in the room, “A book!” A thump followed his declaration.

“That… that’s the symbol Adam had tattooed on his wrist,” Sam’s voice had lost its edge and become clouded in thought. Silently, Methos cursed himself. Why did he have a chronicle lying in his car? The last time he had retrieved a chronicle was when— _Shit._

Shifting slightly, Methos called over his shoulder, “You may not want to read that.”

After a moment of silence, footsteps began echoing towards him and Dean leaned into his field of vision “Back with us?” he smirked down at the immortal.

Methos rolled his eyes and sat up, “Was that really necessary?”

“You are an unfamiliar supernatural creature,” Sam pointed out from his seat at the library’s main table.

Methos raised his eyebrows, “And merely asking to restrain me was clearly insufficient.” Methos directed the glare he normally used on Richie at Dean, and was pleased to receive a slightly sheepish smile in return. “This,” he gestured with his chin down at his ruined clothing, “Was my favorite jumper.” He shifted his feet underneath himself and stood, “I would not have guaranteed my silence, but I would have preferred being manhandled to being killed.” Sam and Dean exchanged another one of their looks. _Only brothers, whether by blood or bond, can communicate like that_ , Methos found himself thinking with a faint twinge of sadness.

Sam cleared his throat and held up the chronicle, “Moving on, why don’t I want to read this?”

Methos leaned forward to peer at it, only to have his suspicions confirmed. The bottom corner of the cover bore Bobby’s initials. This was one of the many chronicles the immortal had retrieved along with the newly revived South Dakotan. Methos sighed, “I don’t know how that one got left in my car; its owner will not be happy when he hears. And, now that I think of it, neither will its _new_ owner.”

Dean snorted, “And how does that prevent us from reading it?”

“It doesn’t.” Methos gave the older Winchester a reproving look and found himself recalling the numerous occasions the same look had been targeted at Richie. _Dean_ is _disturbingly alike to Richie_ , Methos mused. “However, you may find its contents more comprehensible and less provocative if you allow me to explain first.”

“You’re going to talk to us?” Sam looked doubtful at that prospect, “Just like that?”

“If you had given me a chance I would have explained earlier.”

“Really,” Dean’s voice was practically dripping with sarcasm.

“Now, I won’t lie; normally I would be brushing you both off right about now,” Methos smiled wryly, “However, I find hunters can be most persistent. Besides, I’ve heard a lot about you both and have it on good authority that you can be trusted. _And_ you may find you have a personal interest in this information.”

Methos took a moment to absorb the doubtful faces before him. _Oh_ , he thought, _If only you knew how much this will change your life._

* * *

Richie was starting to feel like a dog with a flea problem, or maybe a spider on caffeine. He felt like the Doctor right after a regeneration, or perhaps the Flash after sitting in one spot all day. He was itchy, antsy, and all together unsettled. He wasn’t getting worried, _oh no; the old man can take care of himself._ But he _was_ certain that it was far past a reasonable time frame for the insufferable senior citizen to have called.

Ok, fine. Richie was worried. _If he_ _’s gone and disappeared_ again _, I am going to track him down and take his head._

The young immortal heaved a frustrated sigh and flopped into the chair in his motel room (singular being key). He was totally kidding himself. He may figuratively tear the old man’s head off, but he wouldn’t have it in him to actually kill the ancient idiot. Richie's head thumped into his hands and he found himself staring at the floor through his fingers.

A knock sounded on the motel’s rickety door. “Hey Richie,” Amy’s voice echoed through the wood, “You in there?”

Refusing to budge from his seat, Richie called around his hands, “It’s unlocked; come in.” In answer, the door gave a truly impressive screech. Richie faintly heard Mike (who must be with Amy) mutter something under his breath about god forsaken motels and a hunter’s salary.

“Hey, Rich,” Amy said, a few feet away this time, “I take it you haven’t heard from Adam yet?”

Richie sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “Sometimes,” he muttered murderously, “I just want to strangle the old man. Over and over. And over.”

Mike flopped onto one of the beds, “I’ve always thought it’s funny that you all call him ‘old man’ even though he’s younger than most of you; it really says something about his character. Now, we all know he’s slippery, untrusting, scheming… but, Richie, he does care for you. A lot. I’m sure he just got delayed by something.”

Richie couldn’t stop a disbelieving snort, “Yeah, right.”

“How about this, Richie,” Amy poked him in the shoulder, “give him one more hour, then call. If that doesn’t work, we can track his phone or something.”

Richie felt himself smile, “It would be rather satisfying to drop in on him unannounced…”

* * *

This was not what Dean (and by the looks of it, Sam too) had in mind when Dean shot their supernatural intruder. This wasn't like anything they had ever experienced. _A non-human willingly parting with information on their kind? After being shot?_ Dean shook his head and glanced at his brother, who currently had that signature crinkle between his brows. Dean empathized. _This has to be some kind of trick. Why would he tell the truth? What_ _’s in it for him?_

Adam was quite a sight. He looked like a man from some zombie apocalypse movie, with blood splattering his face and turning his sweater (jumper, whatever), into a nasty coagulated red color and texture. Despite the obvious discomfort he must be in, with blood-covered clothes and his hands tied behind his back, he showed no sign of it. He stood tall, with a strange glint of… something in his eyes. Something dangerous, but equally harmless. It was like the strange man was both impervious and vulnerable at the same time, like a dangerous caged animal just waiting to break free, but somehow also like a puppet master, smirking as he watches the characters dance below him. He seemed to be nervous about something, but that was firmly hidden by his commanding—no—his _ancient_ air. And just a few moments ago, he had been glaring down his captors and berating them for killing him before restraining him. It unsettled Dean; they had never hunted anything this… complicated before.

Suddenly, Adam sighed and hung his head slightly, transforming on a dime once again, “I was not expecting to meet you two, and am not happy I did. It’s a no-win scenario for me. I am certain that if I don’t trust you, a mutual friend will take my head, and am certain that if I _do,_ you two will attempt to do the exact same.”

“Mutual friend?” Dean inquired doubtfully, carefully taking note of the phrasing the visitor used. _Maybe decapitation would kill him?_

Adam lifted his head to give Dean a knowing smirk, “I promise I will get to that. First, about me.” The picture of calm confidence (if calm confidence could be bound and bloody), Adam strode the few steps over to the table, pulled the chair across from Sam out with a foot, and sat. “My people call themselves immortals. A bit of a misnomer, if you ask me, but the name has stuck.”

“We’ve never heard of you,” Sam, always the scholar, leaned forward in interest.

“Yes, I’m afraid the Men of Letters and most hunters have never had a very good understanding of our existence. The Watchers have always held that corner of the market, so to speak. We never really make it onto hunters' radars. Understandable, considering we only kill each other.” A disarming smile crept across his face, “Most of us simply want to live in peace.”

“Whoa there,” Dean put out a hand, pausing in the middle of pulling out his own chair, “Most?” _Meaning the rest go on mass murder sprees?_

The stranger’s smile faded, “There will always be headhunters; those who are too zealous about the Game.”

“The game?” Sam looked like a fish out of water, like whenever they were hunting something that didn’t match any known creatures (which, if you asked Dean, happened far too often lately).

Adam shifted and leaned forward, so his bound hands were farther from the back of the chair and he almost mirrored Sam’s position. “ _The_ Game; three Rules. One: challenges are fought one on one. Two: no fighting on holy ground. Three: there can only be one.”

“Only one what?” Dean felt like he had swallowed something sour. He really, really, _really_ hated curve balls. And did this Adam guy really have to be this dramatic?

"Them," Sam answered for Adam, something between awe and horror in his voice, "Immortals. They fight to the death."

Adam’s eyes flashed with something undefinable, almost grief, but more… hard. It was like he was remembering everything bad that had ever happened to him. _Ok, then,_ Dean thought, _dramatic it is._

Pulling himself out of his glower-fest, the stranger smiled faintly at Sam before turning to stare at the older Winchester, “No one knows what we are or how we came to be, but we have lived upon this earth for millennia, fighting to the death. One by one we fall. In the end times, when few immortals remain, we will feel a pull towards one another and we will fight to the last. This is said to be the time of the Gathering. Most believe that when one immortal is left standing, they will receive the Prize. No one knows what it is, although theories include invulnerability, dominion over the earth, and even mortality. However, we all know that someday, somehow, there can only be one.”

“And how the _hell_ do we _not_ know about this?” Dean ignored the so-called immortal’s continued stare and turned to Sam. The younger Winchester could only shrug. The poor kid still looked completely lost.

“Freak lightning storms,” Adam offered out of the blue.

“I’m sorry?” Dean redirected his attention again. _I really hope that makes more sense than it sounds like it does,_ _‘cause I_ _’m way too close to the end of my rope._

“You do know about it,” Adam smirked again, no doubt at their baffled expressions, “Freak lightning storms; decapitated bodies. That’s us. Well, when it actually gets reported.”

“You mean, you can die from decapitation?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” Adam smiled indulgently at the young scholar. (In the privacy of his own head, Dean did a victory fist pump for the fact that he had figured it out before his little brother.) “Although,” Adam turned his attention back to Dean, “I hope you refrain from testing the theory on me, especially in here. I am quite fond of my head, and it would be a shame to destroy the Men of Letter’s library. It’s the culmination of centuries of research, not to mention a crucial resource I, and no doubt you, are in dire need of.”

“What do you mean, destroy the library?” Sam looked horrified at the prospect.

Adam appeared to sympathize, but shrugged, “Each immortal has what we call a Quickening. It is the energy that powers us, in a manner of speaking. When we are injured, what appears to be lightning or static electricity flashes across the wound, healing it. This same energy is released upon our final death, and absorbed by our killer, provided they are also immortal. This means they receive all the power, and frequently the memories, of the immortal they killed. The more powerful the Quickening is, meaning the older the immortal or the more heads an immortal has taken, the faster the healing factor is and the more violent is its release—in the form of lightning.”  Adam peered from one brother to the other, as though judging their state of mind. Dean was left a little gob smacked at the amount of unprompted information the immortal continued to offer. It was unnatural. However, something about that last speech had grabbed his attention….

“Which one are you?” Dean tapped the table, directing his best suspicious glare at Adam.

“I’m sorry?” For the first time, Adam looked genuinely confused.

“A headhunter or just,” Dean waved a hand, “old?”

“In the past two hundred years I have taken a total of five heads,” Adam shrugged, “Make what you will with that.”

Although pleasantly surprised, Dean wasn’t satisfied, “And how many _people_ have you killed?”

Adam’s passive if indulgent expression twisted into a truly peeved one. “If, Dean Winchester, you do not count the poor souls I was unable to save, whether under my medical care or on a hunt, the answer for that period is still five. If you do, I’m afraid I’ve lost count.”

“And we’re just supposed to believe that?” Dean shot back.

Adam scowled, “As I do not plan to raise their spirits to vouch for me, yes.”

From across the table, Sam glared at Dean, “Come on, Dean, he’s answered all of our questions. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt for now.” Before Dean could reply, he turned back to the immortal, “I have a question. You said earlier that you were basically human but don’t age. How does that work? Do immortals simply come into being looking like they will for the rest of their life?”

Adam’s expression softened immediately. Dean grumbled internally, _Of_ course _the old, potentially dangerous, supernatural nerd likes Sam._ Adam was shaking his head, “No. That would make it easier in some respects. We live a normal human life, right down to injuries and aging, until our first death. From that day forward we appear unchanged, and collect no more scars.”

Sam nodded, though his brow remained drawn, “So does that mean immortality is genetic? It runs in families?”

Adam sighed, “No. Like I said earlier, we have no idea where we come from. All immortals are foundlings and all immortals are sterile. We can’t have children, and pre-immortals do not technically have blood family. That’s why first deaths are always so hard. Pre-immortals seldom have the benefit of knowing what they are before they die, and it is often very hard to hear that your family is not related to you.”

Dean found he had nothing to say to that. As someone whose entire life was centered around family, he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he suddenly found out… they weren’t. _But_ , he thought, looking across the table at his little brother, _maybe it wouldn_ _’t matter._ Sam looked just as lost for words and a little sick to the stomach.

Adam shifted slightly before breaking the silence, “That leads me to my next point….” The immortal frowned as though contemplating how to continue. Before he could, a phone started ringing. More specifically, Adam’s phone—which lay next to his coat and sword—started vibrating furiously and doing its best to escape off the side of the table. Adam huffed, “He has no patience, I swear…”

Exchanging a look with Sam, Dean scooped the phone up and read the contact: ‘Richie’ Dean held it up for their captive to see, “You expectin’ a call?”

Adam gave a wry smile, “Rather, he was expecting a call from me.”

“About what?” Sam asked curiously.

“To use his words, ‘the bat-cave of supernatural lore.’”

Dean took a moment to appreciate that sentiment, and targeted a ‘see? It’s not just me’ look at Sam. He received and eye roll in return. However, the insistent buzzing redirected his attention.

Eyeing the phone for a moment in trepidation, Dean asked its owner, “Is he like you?”

Adam shrugged, “He is only a little older than you, Dean, but yes. He is immortal.”

Accepting the answer, Dean answered and lifted the phone to his ear. Before he could say anything, a young voice on the other end jumped off at a hundred miles an hour, “Took you long enough, old man. If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re getting slow in your old age. Why didn’t you call? Get stuck in traffic or something? You better have not run off to Bora Bora!  Hunter's don't take vacations, man! That's what you're always saying, anyway, or did you forget? Listen, Mike and Amy are getting antsy and I’m about ready to explode. Are you going to tell us where this library is or not? And yes, I know you said not to tell them but we trust them! If these Men of Whatever don’t like Watchers we won’t tell them they’re Watchers. Oh, and Amy says she’s going to hack your phone if you don’t tell us where you are.”

Dean felt his eyes widen under the impressive barrage (which he couldn’t help noticing confirmed everything Adam had said). Adam was giving him a knowing and slightly proud smirk, and Sam was looking painfully curious.

“Uh, Adam? You there?”

Dean cleared his throat, “Sorry, this isn’t Adam.”

“Well, who the hell are you, and how did you get his phone?”

“Easy there; he’s sitting right here,” Dean met his brother’s eyes. Sam clearly got the message that the stories seemed to match up, and he practically beamed. It was very clear he trusted their visitor.

“Then why didn’t he answer?” the voice on the phone was the exact opposite: absolutely dripping in distrust.

Dean turned and met Adam’s gaze, attempting to speak to both immortals at once. However much he may still distrust their intruder and dislike the idea of being friendly with an unfamiliar supernatural creature, he could not deny that he had been nothing but cooperative, and that he did not appear to be lying. “Misunderstanding. We were interrogating him.”

“Why? What’d he do? Steal a book?” the guy was still pretty pissed off.

“No, but I can see him doing that. The problem was more biological. He heals like a lot of the creatures we hunt.”

“Oh,” the voice lost some venom but became stiffer… forced, “How’d he do that?”

“Relax there, kid,” Dean sighed and turned to meet Sam’s eyes again. Now he was doing his puppy dog eyes. _Seriously?_ To the kid, he continued, “We know you two are immortal now.”

“You mean Adam told you?” the kid (who was apparently not a kid judging by Adam’s amused expression) sounded like he was in complete denial.

“Yup.”

After a moment of silence, the guy asked tentatively, “Can I talk to him?”

Dean turned to Adam and held up the phone in question. At the immortal’s nod, Dean leaned over and held the phone to the guy’s ear.

“Bonjour,” Adam greeted languidly, then promptly rolled his eyes, “Yes, Richie, it’s me…. No, I am fine…. Drugged? Honestly, Richie! You’ve seen me drugged; I do not release information I wish to withhold, even under the influence…” He heaved a sigh, “I am positive….  _Because_ we know of these hunters….” Dean imagined that if Adam’s hand had been free he would be pinching his nose in exasperation about now. “Yes, even you… The Winchesters….” Another eye roll, “Yes, _those_ Winchesters.”

During the pause, in which this Richie seemed to have a lot to say, Dean looked over at Sam and mouthed, “Trust them?” Sam nodded eagerly. Dean proceeded to roll _his_ eyes, before resuming his observation of Adam.

Adam shook his head slightly, “No, not yet, I don’t think. Eventually. Perhaps if I can convince my…” Adam paused and surveyed the brothers, “hosts to allow you to visit, it would be a good idea…. And no, stop right there. I don’t think Amy and Mike should come right away; I don’t want to risk tensions. If the brothers allow you to come, perhaps our dear Watchers can follow behind…. Yes, of course…. I agree. Working with the Winchesters could prove interesting.” Adam fell silent, the immortal on the other end of the line dominating the conversation again. The brothers watched in interest as Adam’s eyes slowly grew in size and mirth, before he interrupted his companion, “Richie, however much I may enjoy listening to you embarrass yourself with idol worship, perhaps you could share these ideas with Dean instead.” Adam raised his eyebrows meaningfully at the hunter holding the phone for him. Dean smirked and claimed the phone again.

Before attempting to speak to Richie again, Dean looked to his brother, “Hey Sammy, can you help our _guest_ get more… comfortable?"

Sam beamed at him, obviously pleased that Dean had decided to give the poor man he murdered an hour or so ago a chance. Dean rolled his eyes at his brother (again), watching as Sam urged Adam to lean forward so he could get at the ropes.

Satisfied that Sam understood his implied meaning, Dean once again raised the phone to his ear. Dean cleared his throat, "I hear you want to talk to me?"

As expected, the exuberant youthful voice started up at it's full impressive speed, "Are you really Dean Winchester? As in _the_ Dean Winchester? The stop-the-apocalypse brother-of-Sam-Winchester Dean Winchester? Beacause I seriously never thought I'd get to speak with one of _the_ Winchesters... Although, compared to some of the people I've met, you've got nothing, but at the same time, you _went to hell and came back_. I mean, that should be _impossible._ "

Dean couldn't help snorting, "From what I hear you've died a few times as well."

"Yes, but it's all temporary. And, I mean, it's _meant_ to be temporary. We don't cheat death; we just have a written-in clause or conditional pass, so to speak. Like, death doesn't _want_ us unless we lose our head. But _you..._ " Richie paused, although Dean wasn't certain whether it was for effect or to catch his breath, "You and your brother are _incredible!_  Completely impossible, and so very critical for the survival of the entire world. Immortals are just there, you know, but you guys... I hear you not only cheated death with a lower case d, but also spoke to and dealt with Death with a capital D on mutiple occasions. He _chose_  to help you because your cause was bigger than even him. That's just... Wow."

Dean found himself meeting Sam's eyes. Judging by the crinkle on his brother's forehead, Dean's eyes were wider than they should have been. Dean huffed, "We really need to talk about where you and your friend get your information."

The shrug could practically be heard through the phone, "Oh, here and there. The hunter grapevine, mostly, but a bit from the Watchers and, uh... well... the books."

"Watchers? Books?"

"By Carver Edlund?"

"Damn it Chuck!" Dean exclaimed mostly for his own cathartic benefit. In the corner of his eye, Dean saw Adam (who was working out kinks in his back) smirk.

"Anyway," Richie's voice forestalled any further exploration of the topic, "I'd really, like _really_ , like to visit the bat-cave Adam's been going on about, not to mention it being the home-base of _the_ Winchesters. It would be _incredible_  to meet you guys. I've heard so much about you both. And your dad, but you're so much more awesome. Oh, and Adam. I'd like to see him. Not that I think he isn't fine. I figure you lot are pretty trustworthy, and Adam is a lot more dangerous than he looks." Richie paused, as though processing what he had said, "That didn't help our case any, did it?"

"Relax, kid," Dean chuckled, "We already knew Adam was more dangerous than he looks. Are  you coming alone?"

The guy one other end heaved a long suffering sigh, "It will take all of my incredible wit to foil the two friendly Watchers who are going to be riding my tail, but yes. For now, I'll come alone. Not sure how long I can keep them away though."

"What exactly are Watchers?"

To Dean's great surprise he got two simultaneous anwsers. "I'm not touching that can of worms. Ask Adam." and "They are merely mortals who observe and record the lives of Immortals. They are similar in nature to the Men of Letters. A watcher wrote the book you found in my car."

Dean gave Adam a look of reproach  for the smirk he still wore. Sam, however, 'hmmm'ed in interest.

"Ok then. I take it you don't know where we are?"

"Nope!" came the cheerful reply, "Let me guess... You're over the rainbow, under the troll bridge, and across the river Lethe."

Dean chuckled, slightly surprised he recognized the Greek myth reference. "Close enough…especially the rainbow bit."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Finally. This took quite a bit longer than I expected. Life is... well. I think you can gather the just of it.  
> This is by no means the end. I have several other fics in this AU outlined, and a few chapters started. It may be a little longer than any of us would like, but I want to make sure that I am going in a direction I can live with and won't fizzle myself out.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Please let me know what you think! Any ideas for what I should do in my other fics in the universe would be appreciated.
> 
> (Brace yourself. It's a big one.)

The waiting was painfully dull. Methos was used to dull— patience was his expertise, after all —but the next few hours took the experience to a new, uncomfortable and dramatic, definition of dull. That may seem like a bit of a contradiction, but when you spent five thousand years living and observing others, very few people could surprise you. The Winchester brothers’ reactions, though fraught with tension and conflict, were textbook. (A very soap-opera like textbook.)

Sam attempted to be a gracious host, despite the constant battle he was fighting with his brother. He found Methos a new shirt, and gave him a brief tour of the library. At the same time, the boy was practically burning with curiosity. He attempted to insert his questions at innocuous points in the conversation, trying to be casual about his child-like enthusiasm, but Methos could see the physical restraint the younger brother had to enact to maintain his gracious appearance. To be quite honest, his behavior did nothing but endear the young scholar to the ancient man. To Methos, the pursuit of knowledge was a noble calling he also answered.

Dean, on the other hand, was as suspicious and unfriendly as he could be without appearing downright hostile and incurring the wrath of his brother. Dean watched his guest carefully, almost to the point of paranoia, avoided any real conversation except for unveiled attempts to extract more information, and questioned every request the immortal made. He did not trust Adam, sensing the deep secrets the façade hid, and he did not trust the honesty Methos presented, sensing the incongruity for what it was— despite not knowing how the immortal normally acted. Despite the annoyance Methos felt towards the older brother, he couldn’t help respecting the amazing intuition he displayed. If Dean had been an immortal, Methos would have expected him to make it several millennia at the very least.

One of the first big issues the three hunters encountered was when Methos made an off-hand request to Sam, who had just finished showing Methos how the library was organized.

“While I cannot wait to explore this wealth of knowledge, I would like to attend to some personal care first—if that’s alright,” the ancient immortal smiled at Sam.

Sam frowned, “Would you like clean jeans too?”

“Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. You see, my sword is practically a part of me, and whenever it encounters unfriendly wear—like being tossed around in my coat—I like to check on it. Maintain its condition. I’d also like to look at my other weapons….”

“Oh—that makes sense,” Sam said it in such a way that implied he was disappointed that he didn’t realize the obvious, “I’ll go—”

“Hold it right there.” Their shadow stepped forward and frowned first at his brother and then at their guest, “You aren’t going anywhere near your weapons.”

“I’m afraid, as an individual whose life depends on my sword, I must insist that I’m allowed to maintain it,” Methos frowned at the elder Winchester.

Dean simply crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at the immortal.

Methos huffed in exasperation, "You cannot be serious! You, as a hunter, must know how much care weapons require!"

"And how exactly," Dean stepped forward for emphasis, "Do we know that's all you're gonna do?"

"And what exactly," Methos mocked Dean, "Would I gain from turning on you?"

"I don't know!" Dean threw his hands up.

"Dean—" Sam attempted to cut in.

Dean barreled on, "We only _just_ met and that involved me _killing_ you."

Methos gave a hefty sigh and chose to channel a particularly sarcastic wife he had had back in the 30’s (ahem—1830s), "Yes, I remember, dear. Hurt like hell, but here I am. No need to live in the past.” The brothers both stared at him in confusion, so he added a shrug and eye roll for good measure. “All my friends have killed me at some point; you just got it out of the way up front."

Dean stared at the immortal for a few seconds, "Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

"That's..." Dean seemed to be at a loss for words. Methos found that quite amusing; it was a good look on the stoic hunter.

"Depressing? Honest?" Sam supplied.

Dean shrugged and nodded in acquiescence but narrowed his eyes at Methos, "Doesn't mean I trust you."

"Dean!"

Dean turned to his brother, “What?”

Methos hid a smile as he watched the metaphorical steam rise from the brothers as they engaged in a silent argument. He couldn’t help but compare the exchange to various pairs he’d known over his long life, but for some reason it wasn’t himself and Kronos (for once) that came to mind. It was Bobby and Rufus. Those two hunters were always at each other’s throats one second, then sharing a bottle of scotch the next. _This_ particular argument, however, ended with Dean sporting a sour look and Sam looking thoroughly irritated.

Sam turned on his heel, announcing over his shoulder, “I’ll go get you your sword and cleaning supplies, Adam.”

Methos smiled after the hunter, “Thank you, Sam.” When the immortal returned his gaze to the other hunter, he found Dean not quite glaring at him, but definitely frowning. “What?”

“What’s so funny?” the hunter growled.

The response was so very similar to Bobby that Methos completely failed to maintain his implacable façade and let an explosive chuckle escape. This only served to tick the hunter off further, but as far as Methos was concerned, it was totally worth it.

“I’m still not happy about allowing you access to your sword so you might want to wipe that smile off your face and explain,” Dean snapped.

After Methos got himself back under control, he offered the hunter a smile. He was going for slightly sheepish but wasn’t certain how it came across. “You and your brother just remind me of these two hunters I ran with back in the day.”

Dean frowned, “Do I know them?”

Methos shrugged noncommittally and deflected the question, “Well, they _did_ die.” _Of course they didn’t both_ stay _dead, but we’ll get to that later._

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he offered half-heartedly.

“Death is a part of life.”

Dean did not appear to be comforted by the calm delivery of the line. Unable to resist, Methos supplied a hard grin which had the desired effect of further unsettling the hunter. Did the ancient man feel a little guilty about egging the hunter’s suspicion on? Uh…. No. Not really.

He’d probably pay for it later though.

When Sam returned with Methos’ sword, the three inhabitants decided to forfeit conversation completely in silent agreement. Sam settled down with a pile of books, Methos set to work cleaning his weapons as non-threateningly as possible, and Dean pulled out an impressive collection of guns to clean while watching Methos carefully. The result was unsettling.

The library echoed in near silence. It pressed on the ears and weighed down the occupants. The faint tick of a clock (from somewhere in the labyrinth of the bunker) and the hum of the lights were the only constant sounds. The ambience was only briefly interrupted by sounds of life.

Stone scraped against metal. A book page rustled. A gun magazine snapped into place.

A rag thumped as it was shaken out. The cover cracked shut on a hardback tome. The barrel clanged open on a shotgun.

Someone sighed.

Methos paused in his detailed evaluation of his Ivanhoe to pinch the bridge of his nose. _Where the bloody hell is Richie?_

* * *

“He said _not_ to let you come!” Richie felt like he was trying to dismantle a brick wall with a toothpick. Why were Watchers so stubborn? “He doesn’t want to overwhelm them at first. I mean, they’re the _Winchesters_ — being wary is how they stay alive.”

“What about Bobby?” Amy wheedled.

“Yeah,” Mike jumped in eagerly, “Surely having him there would help them drop the suspicion faster so we can see the bunker?”

Richie let out a pained groan and let his head thump painfully onto the table between the three friends. How had the art of persuasion escaped Methos’ lessons?

* * *

Dean shifted uncomfortably as he attempted to stretch a particularly stubborn muscle in his arm. To be completely honest, he wasn’t paying much attention to what he was doing. He was, however, paying rapt attention to the bunker’s immortal guest. The guy was currently conducting a thorough survey of the library, carefully scanning each title, and occasionally pulling a book from the shelf for a deliberate perusal before replacing it. Dean was attempting to deduce what information he was searching for, but as far as the hunter could tell, Adam was reading a random selection of books. It was a little confusing and slightly unsettling.

Just like everything else about the guy.

For example, Dean had been staring at the immortal for nearly a half an hour—ever since he had finished maintaining his guns and a little before Sam had left grumbling about food—and the guy, although clearly aware of the scrutiny, hadn’t batted an eyelash. It was maddening.

‘Adam’ didn’t seem to care _what_ the brothers thought of him, but still proceeded to explain… _everything_ about what he was. Wouldn’t it be safer for him to _not say anything at all_? Dean sighed quietly, _I mean, I could kill the guy if I wanted to—he_ told _us what chopping off his head would do_.

The strange immortal sharply snapped shut another book and carefully slid it back into its rightful spot. He then proceeded to pause deliberately and scan the expanse of bookshelves he had yet to peruse.

And then there was the matter of the small suspicious things he’d say or things he’d do… they were unsettling but proved nothing. The worst part was he didn’t do it around Sam—at least not the creepy parts. When alone with Dean, Adam would talk off handedly about death and loss and time, often accompanying it with a dangerous smile or wild sparkle in his eyes. Dean got the impression that he’d killed a _lot_ more and a lot more _ruthlessly_ than he had actually disclosed. But if Dean made the assumption that he had told the truth about _everything_ earlier, he’d have to discard the… Wait.

_He said “in the past_ two hundred _years”… he didn’t mention…_ Dean’s train of thought stuttered briefly to a stop. _If he told the truth_ and _I’m right…_

How old _was_ he?

Dean found himself staring at the immortal in a new light; suddenly his cryptic nature and jarring personality seemed mysterious and ancient. His angular face could be something straight out of a story and—Adam snapped another book shut and let out an undignified groan, rubbing his neck with his free hand as he stretched it to the side, producing a loud disturbing crack.

Dean rapidly revised his observations.

He may be older than two hundred, but he wasn’t some mystical wise man with the answer to life. (Hell! Angels are _the epitope of_ _ancient_ , but they’re still dicks!) Adam was a pain in the ass— dangerous, untrustworthy, and oh-so-very calculating, but still a pain in the ass. Dean didn’t like the guy, didn’t understand the guy, and certainly didn’t trust the guy… but he posed no imminent threat.

He could change his behavior on a dime, and Dean couldn’t trust that level of unpredictability. (If he never acted the same from one moment to the next, how could you ever _know_ him? _And if you don’t know someone, you can’t trust them_ , Dean concluded sourly. _Why can’t Sam see that?_ ) However… Dean had to admit that Sam appeared to be ( _currently)_ in the right about their guest.

As though Dean’s thoughts had summoned him, Sam suddenly appeared in the entry way to the library that led to (through several hallways) the kitchen. Somehow the hunter managed to balance three plates as he practically danced back into the room.

"Anyone hungry?" he called with a faint grin, holding the fruit of his labor out as evidence.

Adam whipped around from placing a book back on the shelf and mirrored Sam’s exaggerated glee with ease, "God, yes. Dying his horridly exhasting."

"Since when do you cook?" Dean asked as Sam handed Adam a plate with a flourish.

Sam turned and frowned at his brother, "Since  when does making a sandwich count as cooking?"

Dean shrugged, "It's food."

Adam chuckled around his sandwich, "Yes, Dean, it is. What an astute observation."

Dean glared daggers at the immortal as he accepted food from his brother, certain that the aggravating man had known what he meant. He was proved right a few seconds later when Adam swallowed his bite and burst out laughing. Dean gave the man his best reproachful narrow-eyed glare but when it only served to make him laugh harder, he turned to his brother. Sam was valiantly attempting to hold back a smile.

Against his will, he felt one blossom across his own face.

* * *

A deep humid aroma of sweat permeated the large open room, lined with padded floors, varnished wood, and racks of training weapons. Outside the window, the afternoon sun glinted off passing cars despite the sense of impending rain that echoed through the bones of the dojo’s sole occupant.

Heaving a sigh, Bobby Singer, immortal and hunter of the supernatural, slid his training katana back into its sheath with a snick. Life had been so very slow since he’d died. No more angels or apocalypses, no more sudden visits from the police or panicked phone calls from his boys. Sure, spending time around Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had its moments of excitement and sheer terror (not to mention the maniacs who were now out for his head too), but it wasn’t the same as being a hunter. And… well, Bobby was to the point that he’d freely admit to missing the Winchesters. _I wonder what those idjits are up to now._

Lost in thought, Bobby nearly jumped out of his skin at the overtly cheerful ringtone sounding from his nearby cellphone. “What is it now, Mac?” the ex-hunter muttered to himself as he ambled over to the device, “Amanda, Adam, or a headhunter?” Without looking at the caller ID, Bobby flipped the (now outdated) device open.

“Bobby! Hey—Bobby… how are you? Hope Mac isn’t working you too hard! I remember what it was like…” a familiar young voice exploded across the line before the newer (but older) immortal could so much as say hi. “Listen, so… I need a favor. And like, I’m pretty sure you’ll like it. Not 100%, but pretty sure. Not sure about Mac though. There’s a… oh… 90% chance that Mac will hate it and have both our hides.”

“Richie, you idjit, slow down,” Bobby snapped across the line, “What’re you on about?”

Richie did not slow down. “We may have a problem. Like, a big problem. It could be nothing—just a new adventure filled with monsters and a couple friends—but it could be a biiiig disaster.” Bobby could practically see the kid pacing back and forth.

Bobby eased himself down onto the bench and rubbed at his eyes, “What kind of problem?”

There was a beat of silence. “Um… revealing immortality?”

“Richie!” Bobby was instantly sitting up straight. _Why didn’t he go to Mac? And why can’t his hunting posse help him figure it out?_  “What the hell have you gotten mixed up in now? Where’re Adam and your Watchers?”

“Adam’s… occupied and Amy and Mike can’t come with me but won’t let me go alone.”

“What do you mean _occupied_? And where the hell are you haring off to?”

“There’s no easy way to say this…”

Pounding his head against the wall was starting to look quite attractive. “Then spit it out!”

Richie took a deep breath and pushed it out in a big rush, “Adam sorta broke into a bunker and got kidnapped by Sam and Dean.”

For a long painful second, Bobby was unable to process what his fellow immortal was trying to say. When he finally put two and two together, it sure wasn’t looking like four. “Balls.”

* * *

Ensconced in the library and seated at one of the numerous tables, Adam turned a page in the book he was perusing. Across the table Sam watched his reactions with bated breath. The young scholar _really_ wanted to know if _this_ was true.

For a moment it was quiet, then the immortal snorted, “It is incredible how painfully close the Men of Letters got while still being wrong.”

“Really?” Sam found himself staring at the font of knowledge seated across from him. “So there aren’t different types of vampires?” Sam couldn’t help being a little disappointed. He was quite excited by the prospect.

“On the contrary,” Adam smirked, turning another page and looking up at the hunter, “They only skimmed the surface.”

“What do you mean?” Sam leaned forward.

“Well,” Adam mused, mirroring his position, “There are entire circles of the supernatural that manage to exist in a primarily separate state. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting four distinct types of vampires, as well as nine were-beast variations and a wide range of magic practitioners. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. I’ve never understood the why the communities are so divided; the only explanation I’ve ever come up with is that, just like ordinary people, those involved with the supernatural remain ignorant, and thus separate from the other types of supernatural, because they want to. Or perhaps there are layers of undetectable magic that keep the different communities separate.”

For a moment Sam was speechless. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. “So, you’re saying that, not only are there problems and monsters out there that we don’t know about and can’t handle, but that we don’t know about them because we… don’t _want_ to?”

“Yes.” Adam shut the book and redirected his entire focus to scrutinizing Sam.

“What if we want to?” Sam asked quietly, unable to resist the urge to shift uncomfortably.

The immortal smiled blandly, “Then you’ll discover the true depth of the world’s horrors, and, based on your heroic nature, will attempt to shoulder _all_ of the apocalyptic problems that threaten reality on a regular basis.”

“That’s not encouraging at all.”

“Oh, relax,” Adam waved a hand at the hunter, “The supernatural aspects of the world aren’t _all_ as bloody as the one that you and your brother live in. Regardless, they all have a wide variety of young heroes such as yourself already doing what must be done.”

Once again Sam found himself completely lost and blinking in surprise, “What?”

Adam gave him a smile that was gentler than his average one. It clearly said ‘you know what I mean.’ Although Sam was having a hard time accepting everything it did make a certain amount of sense. _If there are so many potentially apocalyptic events, it makes sense that_ someone _knows what’s up and is doing something about it…_

Once Sam gave the immortal a shrug and nod, he continued to expound on the idea, “I’m quite fond of one particular demonic community, myself.” At Sam’s incredulous stare, Adam rolled his eyes, “Don’t give me that look. It’s a bit of a misnomer if you ask me, as they are not technically demons. At least not in your sense of the term,” Adam gestured in the young hunter’s direction as though it explained everything. Sam however was merely more confused. Adam barreled on, “They are creatures of often grotesque appearance that possess various supernatural abilities; descendants of the Old Ones—the monsters that walked the Earth long before the Creator conceived the idea of humanity.”

Although his confusion was partially nullified, Sam still had questions, “You mean God? How do you know that?”

Adam merely shrugged noncommittally, “Call it an inside source.”

“And you like these… demons?” Sam knew Adam well enough by now to know that he wouldn’t get any more information out of the immortal when he gave such a purposefully vague answer.

“Well, to be fair, they’ve earned the title; a large portion of them are dedicated to the destruction of humanity,” Adam paused and held up a finger, “ _However_ , there are quite a few diamonds in the rough—entire _species_ of demons that harbor no ill will towards humanity. Many of those demons, who simply want to live in peace, have crafted an exquisite sub-society just under the surface of humanity. They have bars, casinos, hotels, restaurants, and even places of worship. Many of them still speak old demonic languages that I had thought were completely extinct before I stumbled across their little communities a few centuries ago.”

“A few… _centuries_ ago. Right.”

“A century is just like a decade. Only longer,” Adam sniped with a smirk.

Sam spent a long, painful moment attempting to absorb everything the friendly immortal had so casually divulged… before giving up. Shaking his head slightly, he refocused on the smirking man sitting across from him, “That reminds me… I’ve been meaning to ask something.”

Adam leaned back, smirk still firmly in place, “Fire away.”

“Immortals track each other down and attempt to behead one another for power, right?”

Adam looked slightly more wary, but nodded in the affirmative.

“How do they do that? How do they know they actually found an immortal? Has anyone pretended to be immortal and accepted a challenge?”

Adam looked quite grim by now. “No. No, that’s impossible. While fights between mortals and immortals do occur, it’s not a _challenge_. Immortals sometimes kill the loved ones of an opponent to infuriate or weaken them, and mortals have been known to hunt down, surprise, and kill immortals— typically out of fear—, but those fights don’t follow any rules, unlike challenges. And no one knows what happens to an immortal’s quickening when they are killed by a mortal. It simply wreaks havoc and dissipates,” Adam stopped suddenly, and reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. He sighed heavily, and Sam got the impression he was remembering someone who had met such a fate. After a moment, he looked back up and continued, “As for a mortal pretending to be immortal? That is physically impossible. We can sense each other.”

Sam was so lost in Adam’s explanation that he was unaware of his brother’s presence until he spoke, “What do you mean by that?”

Frowning, Sam turned to face Dean, who was standing a little ways behind him, wiping his hands on an old cloth, an impressive grease smudge marring his face. Last Sam knew, Dean had spirited away his impressive collection of weapons and disappeared. _When did he get back?_ Sam glanced at the clock… _Wow… it’s been a few hours. Where did the time go?_

Adam, however, seemed completely unsurprised. _That may have something to do with the fact that he could see Dean from his position at the table, though,_ Sam thought wryly.

Regardless, the immortal continued on by answering Dean’s question, “It manifests differently for every immortal, but the idea is the same; they receive a sensation when an immortal is nearby that is unique from anything you could possibly experience. We call it ‘the buzz’ because most immortals perceive it as a buzzing hum or pressure just behind the ears; however I have known immortals who describe it as a prickling sensation at the back of the neck, or as ringing bells. Some even sneeze uncontrollably for the first few seconds after sensing a presence—obviously none of them survived long, though.”

Sam and Dean gave each other a confused glance.

Adam shrugged, “Those initial moments can be the difference between life and death.”

“What’s it like to you?” Sam asked curiously as his brother pulled out the chair beside him.

Adam heaved a heavy sigh, “Honestly I can’t describe it. I just know. It’s… it’s like all of the bones in my body are vibrating, or like something in the pit of my stomach is attempting to break free.”

Dean snorted, “What? Like you’re about to throw up?”

“Dean,” Sam admonished, glancing at him.

Adam chuckled, “No, not like that. Like I said, it is… unique.”

For a moment the three hunters sat in a comfortable contemplative silence.

“You mentioned our grandfather and great-grandfather,” Dean said suddenly, causing the others to give him looks of varying levels of confusion. “Back when you were being all mysterious and explaining how long you had been hunting,” Dean elaborated.

“Yes,” the immortal started hesitantly, “They were both incredible Men of Letters.”

“When did you know them?” Dean asked just as hesitantly.

Adam opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly stiffened and stopped, looking out of the library towards the bunker door. “Richie has finally arrived,” he announced, “And he’s not alone.”

Sam stared at Adam in disbelief, but before he could try to ask why the immortal was so certain a resounding metal knock echoed through the bunker.

Sam couldn’t help but think… _déjà vu._

* * *

“I ain’t made for this anymore, Rich,” Bobby groaned as he slammed the passenger door on the car and stretched a sore muscle in his back. “Long rides don’t agree with me.” Bobby was fairly certain the younger man had borrowed it from his Watchers as Richie had only every owned a motorcycle, and the car he shared with Adam was already parked on the lonely stretch of gravel road.

“Well,” Richie grinned at him from over the car, “I hate to break this to you, Bobby, but you’ve got to live with it for, well, forever.”

Bobby just shook his head with faint amusement. _Richie sounds a lot like Dean_ , Bobby found himself beginning to marvel as he had so often before, turning around as he did so. This time, however, the thought was cut short and he found himself staring at the familiar impala parked beside the two other battered old cars.

His boys really were here.

Richie, who had walked up behind him without him noticing, put a hand on his shoulder, “You ready?”

“ ‘Course I am,” he huffed gruffly.

All Richie did was give him a knowing smile and start towards the bunker door. Taking a precious moment to compose himself, Bobby took a deep breath before following. In front of him, Richie stopped and inhaled sharply. A few feet later, Bobby found out why as the powerful immortal presence washed over him.

Adam was definitely in that bunker. With the two best hunters alive.

This did not bode well at all.

“Well,” Richie said, with fake joviality, “He already knows we’re here; might as well knock.”

Bobby gave Richie a side long look as they took the last few steps towards the door. “You spent the entire car ride bouncing in your seat like a little kid,” Bobby admonished, “ _Now_ you get cold feet?”

Richie swallowed hard, “The old man’s gonna kill me, and then he’s going to drag me off to Chicago and let Mac kill me too.”

“Oh, suck it up,” Bobby huffed, “If you’re getting killed, so am I, and this was _your_ idea.”

“Right,” Richie scoffed back, “Like you didn’t jump out of your skin at the chance to see Sam and Dean.”

“Knowing my boys, they’re going to kill us too,” Bobby offered.

Richie glanced at Bobby as though trying to judge if he was serious. “Joy,” he muttered as he raised his hand over the door.

The knock was hollow and metallic. It was followed by an ominous minute of silence.

“Should we, uh…” (Richie looked like the teenager he seemed and not the man he was), “knock again?”

No sooner had the immortal finished his sentence did the door fly open, revealing a large well lit room and three familiar figures. Dean held the door, eyes going from narrowed in wariness to wide in surprise. Behind him, Sam and Adam stood side by side. Sam’s mild curiosity became a gap-jawed look within seconds of the door opening, mirroring his brother. Adam’s blank look that he wore only when he was pretending not to be concerned, however, melted into a look of utter annoyance, exasperation, and… murderous intent.

Bobby was almost ( _almost_ ) too concerned by that look to catch the whisper that escaped from two mouths simultaneously:

“Bobby?”

* * *

Getting to the bunker door took longer than necessary, in Methos’ opinion. They were delayed for a few seconds by Dean picking up a gun and Methos attempting to explain to the dense hunter that it likely wouldn’t do much against two immortals, regardless of the fact that Methos would rather not have Richie shot (again). Sam managed to break off the fight before it started, though, and herded them both up to the door.

“Are you sure one of them is your friend?” Sam asked with mild concern.

Adam sighed, “Yes. I would know Richie’s quickening anywhere.”

“And you’re sure there’s a second immortal?” Sam queried again.

“Yes,” Methos did an admirable job at keeping his voice even.

Dean glanced back down at them from where he was a few feet from the door, “But you don’t know who?”

Methos rolled his eyes as he reached the top of the stairs with Sam at his side, “No. I am not familiar with all of my friends’ quickenings, let alone those I do not know.”

Dean exchanged one last look with Sam, worry matched with curiosity, before throwing the door open, revealing the two figures standing on the other side. Adam knew them both.

_Richie_ , Adam fumed silently, _what on_ earth _were you thinking?_ The young immortal had pulled a practically newborn immortal away from his teacher ( _likely without Mac’s permission_ or _knowledge_ ) in order to drag him along on a trip (that he was _supposed_ to have come on _alone_ ) to meet the two most important figures from the newborn immortal’s mortal life—who just so happen to be hunters with an impressive record of killing things. _This situation was volatile enough to begin with._

After the brothers muttered their father figure’s name in disbelief, time seemed to be temporarily frozen. Sam and Dean were staring and Bobby. Bobby was staring at Sam and Dean. Richie was nervously watching Methos, and Methos was watching everyone else.

After a moment of tense surprise and disbelief, Methos sighed, “Bobby. It’s good to see you.” He ignored the looks the brothers were giving him and continued on, “I hope Mac knows where you are.” Bobby took in Methos’ raised eyebrow and had the decency to look concerned. “Richie, I thought you were planning to come _alone_ ,” his voice dropped ever so slightly. Richie looked every inch the troublesome teenager caught in the act. Bobby looked even more concerned. Dean was looking at Methos in suspicion and, from what he could see out of the corner of his eye, Sam looked vaguely unsettled. Methos heaved a sigh, effectively breaking the mood, “Although I imagine Mike and Amy were rather persuasive about dragging Bobby into this… _this_ is not how I planned to break the news.”

“You mean,” Dean snapped, “The news that you not only know Bobby here, but that he’s _alive_?” Dean turned on the old hunter, “And I mean, come on man! You couldn’t have dropped a note or something?”

Before Bobby, who was looking rather guilty, could respond, Methos jumped in with a light snort, effectively redirecting the hunter’s anger, “He certainly wanted to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“It means that I pulled dear old Bobby out of the hospital morgue after he revived, and dragged him kicking and screaming to a friend who is a better teacher than I.”

“Why?” Sam cut in slightly calmer than his brother. Dean continued to fume at the ancient immortal, but didn’t interrupt his brother.

To everyone’s surprise, Bobby responded, “Because of the Game, you idjits. It’s not like I was very good with a sword before I died.”

Dean’s face pinched in a way that Methos chose to interpret as ‘didn’t see that coming but probably should have; que additional anger to add to still present fury’. Sam, however, breathed a quiet, “Oh.”

A second later, Richie suddenly clapped his hands together, “So! Nice chat. Now, I hate to interrupt, but maybe we can move this inside? You can test me and Bobby for all the usual things, just to put yourselves at ease, and then we can get the touching reunion out of the way, along with a tour of the batcave, before resuming this, uh, tense conversation.” Richie brandished his most winning grin, “And then maybe you can hold Adam down while I run away so he doesn’t skin me alive!”

Bobby snorted, “Good luck with that, kid. No one stops Adam unless he _wants_ to be stopped.”

Richie wrinkled his nose, “Yeah… you’re right. Maybe we should just shoot him instead; get a head start.”

“So now I’m getting skinned _with_ you?” Bobby growled at Richie.

“ _You’re_ the one who said that if I got killed, you’d get killed too!”

“ _I_ was talking about Mac, you idjit.”

“Oh?” Methos couldn’t help jumping in, “The boy scout killing two of his students at once? I’d pay to see that.”

“Shut up, old man,” Richie griped, “I still have my sword.”

“Careful Richie, Dean here is rather fond of confiscating weapons.”

“And you _let_ him?”

“What was I supposed to do? Kill them?” Methos snorted, “No bloody thank you! Bobby would’ve raised literal hell to come ride my ass.”

“I would’ve found a way to bring Rufus back too, you asshole, just to torment you for all eternity.”

Methos shuddered dramatically, “Count me out.”

At the sound of a chuckle, Methos refocused on the brothers. Dean, although he was still sporting a faint red hue, looked as though someone had slapped him with a wet fish and was at a loss for how to react. Sam, meanwhile, was valiantly holding back laughter (bordering on hysteria), while simultaneously looking utterly befuddled.

Those looks alone made the entire ordeal worth it.

And maybe, just maybe, everyone would make it out in once piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew.  
> Another big thank you to my beta, EtchNya.  
> Stay tuned for new stories like what Bobby has been up to, how Methos got introduced into the supernatural, and how the Immortals will effect the plot of season 8 of Supernatural. (I'm also going to drop a few unrelated stories--hopefully soon).  
> Hope you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think ^.^


End file.
